Five
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: Five one-shots about what would have happened if Joanna Lannister had survived childbirth.


**274 A.L.**

**Casterly Rock**

"I never hurt him. I was only showing them the little monster." The child's voice rises, strident with temper. "And what if I _did_?"

"Cersei." At the sound of the rustle of her skirts, the wet-nurse sinks with relief into a deep curtsey. Joanna waits at the landing of the flight of stairs until her daughter dips down as well. She does so with the poorest grace in the world. "You will not speak so of your trueborn brother."

"I beg pardon, my lady mother," the girl says and then, unable to help herself, bursts out, "But _she _had no place to question me. She's just an udder with legs!"

The wet-nurse flushes and looks to her mistress expectantly, but Joanna does not spare her a glance. "It was not her place to speak out of turn to you and in such a fashion," she acknowledges frostily, "but then, neither was it yours to flaunt your brother to our guests like a peddler's gimmick."

"But he is!" Cersei bursts out. "Just like a two-headed calf. They thought he had a tail and scales and horns - that's what they all think about him! That he's a little monster. And he _is_."

Joanna ignores her. "Myrma, you will take yourself to Lady Dorna to see about your wages. And then you will see yourself and your boy out."

"My lady!" The young woman sinks to her knees but one look from the Lady of the Rock quells her and with a hiccuping sob, she turns and flees down the corridor.

_Too soft, _Joanna thinks critically. _The next one will need iron in her spine and vinegar in her tongue if she's to deal with the twins, when they come visiting. _Before the smirk on Cersei's face can blossom fully, Joanna says, "And you, mistress, will spend all of today and tomorrow hemming and basting with my women. Perhaps that will teach you better manners and of the duty and respect you owe our family."

"But _mother_-"

Joanna does not slap her, although there's many a mother that would. Instead, she flicks her skirts away from Cersei's grasp as though her daughter disgusts her. And in some ways, she does. "And you will do so in silence so that you might better contemplate your transgressions. Speak but a word and I promise you that you'll quickly learn that there are far less pleasant things in the world than sewing. _Go_."

Cersei does not cry, though her eyes are over-bright as she forces herself to curtsey to her mother. But the look she shoots her is so hateful, so venomous that Joanna almost shivers.

At the banquet that night, Joanna has ordered snake-meat grilled over a charcoal brazier, spiced with mustard, dragon peppers and a dash of snake-venom, in honor of Loreza's visit. Other Dornish foods, that Kevan sniffs suspiciously at and Jaime makes a face at when he thinks she's not looking, grace the table as well - blood oranges and caramelized dates, grape-leaves stuffed with mince meat and orange snap-peppers, breaded scorpion and stranger fare, from across the waters, such as unborn lamb, jellied calves' brains and dog cooked with lemon and honey.

She does not submit her guests or her lord husband to the sour Dornish vintage of course, instead at the high table they sip summerwine and spiced hippocrass from crystal flutes and toast to a prayer for a short winter.

When Princess Elia compliments the food and asks Cersei whether Dornish fare is strange or pleasing to her, Joanna cuts across. "My daughter is not to speak today," she says, "she is in contemplation for a small mischief."

Gerion laughs heartily. "Again, Cersei? Mercy, what have you done now?" He is fond of his niece and nephews and quick to tease them and laugh at them or make them laugh. Cersei's face turns as red as her new silk gown as the others chuckle in amusement - even Jaime, who sticks out his tongue at her. _Good, _Joanna thinks. _A little laughter never hurt anyo__ne. _And the gods know, Cersei needs to be reminded every now and then that she cannot be a little tyrant.

"Lady Cersei is most spirited," Loreza says kindly. "Such fire, such charm will be much cherished and admired in Sunspear." Tywin frowns at her for letting slip the news - _women_, he will bluster, later at night in the privacy of their bedchamber, _they can never keep their mouths shut._ _Except for you, my love. _But now that the cat's out of the bag, he sits back and resigns himself. Kevan and Gerion, who were not yet informed, gape at him - Kevan wounded at being left out, Gerion bewildered.

Cersei drops her fork and opens her mouth. "Sun-sunspear, Your Highness?" she says, stuttering for the first time since she was a baby. Jaime grabs her hand and squeezes it so hard that she fears he might snap his sister's bones.

Joanna does not reprimand her. "Yes, daughter," she says calmly, "you are to be fostered under Her Highness's care, until such a time that you reach an age to be wed. It was decided today." As an afterthought she adds, "Jaime, leave your sister's hand. No, Cersei, you may _not_ retire." She looks closer to bolting than retiring.

Prince Oberyn shoots his mother a look, but Loreza shakes her head. He is not to be betrothed to the Lannister girl and for that, he rolls his eyes heavenwards and mimes a prayer of relief. _Impertinent brat_, Joanna thinks. Not at all to her taste or Tywin's.

"And we have decided to betroth our heir, Jaime, to Her Highness's daughter," Tywin says calmly, not to be left out when the announcements are being made. "Princess Elia, I bid you welcome to our family."

"I am honored beyond words, my lord," the Dornish girl murmurs, eyes shadowed by her lashes. Her face gives nothing away, but then she is not a child like the twins. "I hope I am pleasing to you and my Lady Joanna." _You aren't, _Joanna thinks. _But you _are_ Loreza's daughter. You will have to do._

She kisses the girl's cheek, as a good-mother should and says, "In the fulness of time, it is our dearest wish that you and Cersei grow as close as sisters. For such you will be in name, once Jaime grows to manhood. She will have much to learn from you when she leaves for Dorne with you. Dorne and... who knows where else?"

_We all know where, _Joanna thinks, exchanging a look with Loreza and Tywin. _King's Landing, that's where. _

* * *

**278 A.L.  
**

**King's Landing**

At twelve, Cersei is scarce a handspan shorter than Joanna. _When last I saw you, you only came up to my shoulder. _If she were a fond and foolish mother, a weak woman who could look no further than her own whims (like Dorna, she thinks uncharitably), the thought would have made her sad.

She kneels to receive her mother's blessing, but her eyes dart about as though looking for someone else. _Jaime. _

"Your brother is well," Joanna says, to forestall the questions. She pulls her daughter up, kissing her cheeks and holding her an arm's length away, the better to see her. "We saw him at Crakehall before sailing for King's Landing, not a month ago. Shooting up like a string-bean." She smooths Cersei's hair. "My, how you've grown." Tyrion peeps out from behind his mother's skirts, a shy little stranger. "Won't you greet your little brother?"

Cersei does not stoop to his level, to cuddle and fuss over him as a more tender sister might. _I was tender at her age, _Joanna says. _I was never soft, but I was tender with my br__other and little sisters. _"You brought me the wrong little brother, my lady mother." She flicks her skirts away from Tyrion and the little boy shrinks back, frightened.

Joanna sighs. "Come," she says. "We have so much to talk about." She lets Tyrion take her hand and slows her steps down to match his waddling little ones.

Cersei throws her a curious look. "You never held our hands and walked when we were little."

"I did, actually," Joanna says, "but less so than I do with Tyrion, I acknowledge. You and Jaime had each other and a host of servants and little playmates, if you wanted them. This poor little one has only me."

In the Tower of the Hand, all her aunts want to meet her and pepper her with questions and compliments but Joanna shoos them off. "I wish you'd shoo the little imp away too," Cersei says, as she follows her mother to her bedchamber.

"Imp," Tyrion repeats. "Dwarf. Midget."

"Peace, Cersei, can you not leave the child alone for a minute?"

Cersei gasps when her mother opens the door and claps her hands to her mouth, just as Joanna expected she would. Gowns in silk and velvet, brocade and cloth-of-gold, Myrish lace and sheer Qartheen linen. Gowns the blue of the sea and the sky, gowns in frosty silver and pewter like stormclouds, gowns as green as glossy, rain-washed leaves and Yi Ti jade, gowns in scarlet and rose, wheat-gold like Cersei's hair and sable like Elia's and a thousand other shades. And there are more - cloaks and gloves and dancing slippers and jewels spilling out of caskets.

"Your trousseau," Joanna says as the girl gives a muffled shriek. "Fit for a queen."

Cersei turns to her. "So I am to be queen then?"

Joanna smiles at her, a conspiratorial smile from mother to daughter and for once, Cersei responds with warmth. It touches her. "Did you ever doubt it?"

"No," Cersei says, winding a rope of pearls around her throat and staring dreamily into her Myrish looking glass. "But I always thought, after you sent me to Dorne, that you were planning to marry me to Oberyn. And I never thought you'd-"

"Care?" Joanna raises an eyebrow. "Who else would I care for but my only daughter? No, don't look at poor Ty like that. I have been plotting and scheming for you for years, Cersei."

"So it is settled?" Cersei breathes.

"All but," Joanna says. "The queen is quite agreed, she and I were ever close, and the king amiable for now - though who can tell what moods might possess a madman? But it is for _you_ to charm Prince Rhaegar once you meet. His father is not so set on the match as we might hope for, and if the son is not best pleased all our work will be for naught."

Cersei tosses back the rope of her golden hair back and laughs. "I was reared in Dorne, lady mother," she says haughtily, "trust me, there is nothing left that I do not know about charming a man."

_Except humility perhaps, _Joanna thinks. _You'd be surprised how many men like a trodden woman. _But she lets it go. This is her daughter's day, this is Cersei's golden hour. "I know," she says, holding her daughter and kissing her forehead. "I always knew you would make us proud, my love."

It would be a touching moment, but for the fact that Cersei has to disentangle herself and shriek, "Mother, he's touching my gown! Make him _stop_!"

That night, Joanna dresses her daughter herself - in a gown of snowy Myrish lace, with the dagged sleeves lined in gold satin. Pearls and emeralds star her throat and hair and Joanna wipes her eyes when she is done, unaccustomedly maudlin. "You look as pure as the Maid herself," she sniffs. "When I came to court as a young maid, I was older than you and had but one good silk gown. But it was green and it showed my figure off to advantage - Aerys could scarce take his eyes off me all night." She squeezes Cersei's hand. "You'll do even better."

"I know," Cersei says, unmoved.

She sings, she dances, she laughs. No one can take their eyes off her that night. She is beautiful, but more than that she is young and fresh and joyous, a breath of air and light in a staid court that has not known how to play and make merry for years. Next to quiet, dark Elia she is at her glittering best - all the faults and flaws that Joanna knows smoothed over under a coat of varnish. _Surely more than a veneer? _Joanna thinks. _She has grown so much in four years. Surely she is not the child she used to be. _

"Your daughter shines with joy, my lady," Prince Rhaegar tells Joanna.

"She is very young, Your Highness," Joanna says. "She has ever reason in the world to be joyful."

"Such purity and innocence is rare," he acknowledges. "It is to be cherished and preserved."

"I hope it will be," Joanna says and a smile passes between them.

"His Highness likes Cersei very well," Elia says. "I look forward to happy news soon."

"There will be a wedding before the year is out, gods willing," Joanna says piously. "And then, good daughter, you will come with me to the Rock to meet your betrothed." Jaime is too young to be wed now, that must wait for his sixteenth year but it is past time Elia learned the ways of the westerlands. "And now Elia, you must tell me all about Cersei and the woman she has become, and I will tell you of Jaime."

Elia smiles, but guardedly. "Why, what is there to tell of Cersei, my lady? She is beautiful beyond word, charming and spirited. She is perfect."

* * *

**281 A.L.**

**Harrenhal**

_How did it all come to this? _She asks herself, sinking wearily to the bed and running her hands over the braided gold of Cersei's circlet.

Cersei has screamed herself hoarse and now she lies, exhausted, on the bed, finally letting her mother stroke her forehead and untangle her hair. "I will have her head," she whispers. Her knuckles are battered and bloody. Petals and pottery are scattered over the rushes and Myrish carpets. "I will have her heart on a skewer and her eyes pecked out by ravens and I will burn her whore's cunt."

"You will," Joanna says soothingly, gathering her daughter's hair and combing it. "I will see to it myself, if you wish. But for now you must rest and calm yourself for the sake of your babe."

Cersei leans up on one elbow, her eyes burning like embers. "Mother," she hisses, "if I could shake Rhaegar's brat free of my womb now with a potion I would."

"Cersei please-"

"Don't worry," she says bitterly, "I am seven months gone. I'm not such a fool as to kill myself to spite him. But he _will_ pay for this."

"You will," Joanna agrees, "I will see to it myself, if you wish." _On your wedding day, you feed each other by the hand, _she thinks sadly, _you were so deeply in love and everyone said how beautiful, how perfect you two looked together. Gold and silver. Tywin wept tears of joy. _"Cersei, what went wrong? You were so happy on your wedding day but now... you shrink from one another and you have not told me a word. Does he have other women? I have heard of no such thing but-"

"He has never had other women," she says, "Dreams and dusty scrolls were enough for him, or so I thought till now." She lets her mother hold a cup of wine to her lips and drinks greedily. "What went wrong, you will want to know. I can scarcely tell, myself. In the first year we were so happy... but then things changed. I cannot tell how but he began to treat me as though I was poison to him, as though I disgusted him.

Now it is duty, not desire, that takes him to my bed - when he comes at all. He would rather moon at Summerhall with Dayne or Connington and at first I thought - but no matter. I was wrong. When the maester told me I was with child, three years after our marriage, I could hardly believe it myself. Why _her_, mother? I am a hundred times more beautiful-"

"Mayhap she pleases him in a perverse northern fashion," Joanna says peevishly, "she looks innocent enough but she might be a little savage underneath. Past time she was wed to the Baratheon boy." She strokes Cersei's face. "Do not trouble yourself, daughter. Be yourself and Rhaegar will come back to you." _If the gods are kind. _"As for the rest, leave it all to me. Sleep now."

As she rises, Cersei says in a thin voice, "Mother, will you send Jaime to me? Please. I need him."

_They were children then, _Joanna thinks. _Children playing. Surely there is no harm now. _"Of course, my love. I hope he will give you some comfort." She does not need to send a page for her son - he is waiting outside his sister's door. So is Tyrion.

"I brought a blancmange for her," he says awkwardly, "and some tea from Elia-"

"It will be good for her throat," Joanna agrees. "Talk her to sleep if you can, Jaime."

"Will Cersei be alright?" Ty asks anxiously. He thinks the world of the sister who still treats him like a mangy cur and that saddens Joanna at times. Poor, pure-hearted little imp, he deserves better. "I wish I was a knight like Jaime, I'd teach Prince Rhaegar a lesson or two-"

"Hush, child. It is our duty to see to Cersei but you _cannot_ say such things of the crown prince," she says gently. "Come Tyrion, it has been a long day for all of us. Perhaps you might write a song for your sister. You know how they please her."

"I'll write a song for her," Ty says mildly. "It'll make her very happy, you'll see. It'll be about Prince Rhaegar. And his northern cunt."

Joanna rubs her temples, but she does not bother to correct his language. He will have heard worse from the guards in the barracks and his brother. _A thorn by any other name..._

* * *

**282 A.L.**

**King's Landing**

"Your Highness."

She sinks gracefully to her knees before the new princess. Lyanna Stark offers her a cool hand to kiss and Joanna thinks she looks like a small brown dormouse next to her husband and sister-wife. Where Cersei is tall and shapely and glowing, the Stark girl is short and skinny as a lathe. _Dark and light. _

Targaryens have taken more than one wife before, the High Septon had argued. So have the gods, who wed brother to sister. Who were they to judge the ways of gods and dragonlords? _But you have no dragons, my lord, _Joanna thinks, accepting the kiss of peace from Rhaegar. _And the filly you bo__ught will soon be barren. _

Under her loose-flowing gown of purple silk, Joanna can faintly see the curve of Lyanna's belly. She steps aside with Tywin, his jaw gritted so hard she fears it will snap. Robert Baratheon bounces little Princess Rhaenys, his face bland. In place of a shamed harlot, his cousin has given him his eldest daughter to bride, when she flowers. A good bargain. Her granddaughter is so pretty too, with silvery-gold hair and purple eyes. _He is good with children, _Joanna thinks. Rumor has it that he has a bastard in the Vale. The Starks are lined up against the wall, their faces a study in contrasts. Lord Rickard glows, Brandon glowers and the younger two sons are plainly bewildered.

"I will not be shamed any longer-" Tywin hisses once they are outside and in the gardens. Servants offer them dainties - slivers of baked apple and pears-in-brandy, stuffed mushrooms, smoked salmon and tart wines.

"Peace, husband," she says. "She will never wear the name of queen. That is to be Cersei's alone."

"The name matters not if the little slut has him by the breeches," Tywin growls. "And I have no faith in him anymore. He is just like his father - as mad as he is charming. I have given Aerys my chain." He curls his lip. "I thought Cersei was wiser-"

"It is not her fault. That is Rhaegar's alone."

"She must have done something wrong," he persists. _Just like a man_, Joanna thinks irritably. "She gave him a girl-"

"Rhaegar crowned the Stark girl with roses two months before Cersei gave birth," Joanna reminds him, frustrated.

"She did not please him for years before that," Tywin says curtly. "She must have done something wrong, Joanna. What was it? Was she too lewd, in the Dornish way? Was she sharp and shrewish, as was her wont? Was it her slowness to breed? What _was_ it?"

"Her own sin was being a woman," Joanna snaps. "A woman at a madman's whim." Abruptly she curtseys to him. "I beg your leave, my lord. I must see to my daughter."

She threads her way to Cersei's chamber, where she has already retired. She sits on her bed with Jaime's arm around her and looks up dully when her mother enters. Joanna does not bother to ask them why they are alone. They are past impropriety now.

"Wait in the balcony," she tells Jaime. "I have something for your sister." Jaime opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but she snaps, "This is women's lore."

She waits till the curtains that screen the balcony from view drift down, before pulling the pouch out from her petticoats. "I had them off an old woman from the East. I knew her first when I was trying to conceive," she says cryptically. "It had been seven years since I'd been with child, after you two and I feared that I would never have another."

"And you bore a little monster," Cersei says sweetly. "An ugly, humpbacked little dwarf."

"Cersei, was it your tongue that cut away your love?" She tugs at the drawstrings and holds the powdered herbs to light. "Mix this into the girl's wine and I promise you she will never quicken again."

Cersei sniffs at them curiously. "Well at the very least I know she's bound to birth a beastling," she says bitterly, "may she die of it." Joanna winces. _I almost did. _She smiles faintly at her mother. "When her bastard rots in her womb, I can tell Rhaegar that I have quickened with our second. Mother, I am with child again. Tell father that I pray that this one will be a son, a lion cub with a golden mane and emerald eyes."

* * *

**292 A.L.**

**King's Landing**

"Powdered herbs, my arse," Cersei hisses as she slips into her gown. This is a matron's gown in a murky dark hue, high-necked and unornamented - not at all in the fashions she prefer. But it will court favor with her judges. "We should have slipped poison in her soup when we had the chance." Her veil of fluted cloth-of-gold covers her braided hair and throat and over it she wears Naerys' crown, a heavy thing of red gold with gemstone-eyed dragons for the seven points. "I gave Rhaegar three children and she gave him grief and a womb filled with rot and pus. She is eaten up with her own spite."

_But he loves her for all that, _Joanna thinks. Her gown is scarlet and gold, the colors of House Lannister. "She would never have dared make such accusations if she had not some proof-"

"Her bitterness is all the proof she needs. The milk madness of a barren woman." Cersei stacks golden rings on her fingers and her words rattle, too sharp and quick.

_Oh daughter, _Joanna thinks. _Did you think me a fool? You should have told me. I would have helped. I would have done something. _But she bites her lips on the harsh words. Done is done and now her duty is to her daughter - and her son as well. "Or perhaps the northern herbs she gathers to lure Rhaegar to her bed," she suggests.

"Yes, that's a good one."

Joanna grabs her hand. "Stop pacing," she says, her voice like frost, steadying her daughter. "You are queen and she is but a savage little whore. They all know her shameful story. Why should they listen to her at all?"

"Because they _love_ her," Cersei sneers. "Everyone loves her - scattering gold all over Fleabottom, riding up and down the city in her open chariot, parading herself like a common harlot. Ugh."

"But they fear you," Joanna tells her. _Or your father at any rate. _"You do not need their love, Cersei. And," she adds carefully, "it is not so strange that your sons take after you... and Jaime. Your daughter is Rhaegar's, tis plain to see. But from now on, you must not see your brother alone, not without a chaperone. Do you agree?"

Cersei nods eagerly, she will agree to anything now. _Oh my daughter, _Joanna thinks sadly, _why are you so slow to learn wisdom, so quick to throw a__way all the gifts the gods have given you? For what? Spite? Folly? Madness? _"Tyrion has been working for you," she says, "yes, the brother you despise."

"What, the whoremaster?" Cersei asks, face twisting. "I do not need his help. Has he been serving me in the winesinks and pits of the city?"

"Strange to say he has," Joanna says serenely. "Spreading stories and songs among the low folk. You and your father would say that is what he does best but then sometimes I think neither of you have the sense the gods should have given you."

"Is his little concubine spreading her legs to spread the stories quicker?" Cersei asks sweetly.

"Tysha is the mother of your niece, whether you like it or not," Joanna says. "And dearly loved by your brother, who wishes nothing but good for you. He has served you better than Jaime, I would say. At least he has never dragged your name through the mud."

"The mother of a bastard," Cersei sniffs.

"Some," Joanna says sweetly, "would call you that as well. The mother of two bastards. Traitor, adulteress, they would say you should hang from your heels at the city gates with your flesh stripped away and your brats impaled on pikes next to you. You were always a spoiled girl, Cersei, and you have grown into a stupid woman. I would rather have borne a dozen dwarfs than be saddled now with with _you_."

And for the first time in her life, she slams the door behind her. Tywin is waiting for her in the antechamber, his face frozen into a hard mask. He raises an eyebrow when she enters the room.

"If she were not my daughter," Joanna says shortly, "I would gladly see her hang." She pours herself a measure of wine. "I hope you have kept Jaime close under watch. Did you find Elia?"

Tywin shrugs. He has no interest in his son's barren wife, as he has called her to her face. "Is it true-" he begins abruptly, as though unable to restrain himself any longer.

"Oh husband," she says irritably, "how much longer will you fool yourself? Of course those children were Jaime's."

"Did you always know?"

"Of course I didn't. I pieced it over the years as any person with a working brain could have. And I did my best to keep it out of the light - until Cersei ruined herself through her own folly."

"A toast," Tywin says dryly, "to our children. Our beautiful, perfect children."

"Peace," Joanna says, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. "Not all is lost. Our children may be thrice-cursed fools but we are not. Your grandson will yet sit on the Iron Throne. Above all, Lyanna Stark has no proof, does she? Only shadows and accusations."

He strokes her hair and for a moment, they sit still, wrapped in each other's arms. Lovers still, in spite of the weight of years gone by. _Always lovers, _Joanna thinks, burying her face in his shoulder. _Always._

"Come husband," she finally says, reluctantly. "It is time we took our places in the court."

The Lannisters sit together in a curtained alcove, away from prying eyes and whispering tongues. Tyrion has brought Tysha, heavy with their second child, but Tywin is long past caring. _Maybe a brother for little Lanna, _Joanna thinks. If Jaime and Cersei were to lose their heads today, Tyrion's children would have to be legitimized. Jaime is seated below, ringed with guardsmen.

She slips her hand into Tywin's, the pressure reassuring her as the judges fill in and the king's wives take their thrones on the dais. Lyanna Stark rises and begins to speak, the words filtering past Joanna. _She has no proof. _But then she says, "If it please my honorable lords, I would like to bring in my witness." Tywin's nails dig into Joanna's palms and she curls her fingers tighter around his. Her heart begins to thump wildly and Tyrion utters a muffled oath.

"My lords, may I present to you the Lady Elia Lannister?"


End file.
